Shot Down
by Lily-Anne
Summary: Based on the Biggles books by W.E Johns. Biggles is shot down and presumed dead. Whilst his companions are mourning, Biggles is desperately trying to find a way home. Rated T for some violence. Will write more depending on response from readers.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Quite frightened now, the young pilot glanced at the unfamiliar ground below him for what must have been the hundredth time. The fog had cleared now, and he was now aware that he was well and truly lost. Shivering, he huddled lower into the cockpit. His instruments were next to useless. The bullets that had been intended for him had missed, but they had destroyed his instrument board instead.

He cursed silently. Three Huns. He'd shot down three Huns in one show. Surely that was enough? Why on earth had he been so foolish as to leave the squadron to chase down one more?

Well, he couldn't fix his mistake by looking back, that was for sure. He glided down closer to the ground, trying to find some familiar landmark. As he did, he heard the pounding of bullets against his fuselage. Damn! It was the plane that he'd chased and lost! Before he could react, another hail of lead hammered the machine. He swerved wildly, but a streamer of black smoke leaked from the engine. It was closely followed by a tongue of flame. He saw his attacker retreat out of the corner of his eye. There was no need for him to hang around. He tried to glide down, but the Camel refused to respond. As the ground raced up to meet him, he tucked his legs up to prevent them from being trapped, and covered his face with his arms. The thick black smoke from his engine was choking him. The plane crashed with a violent jolt, and he struck his head against the shattered instrument board. From that position he didn't move. The young pilot lay slumped forward in the cockpit, blood trickling down his face, unaware of the flames that were beginning to take hold of his plane.

Biggles, one of the finest pilots of the first World War, had been shot down at last.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"DEAD?" Major Mullen sat down behind his desk, stunned. Composing himself, he spoke again. "You're absolutely certain, Lacey?"

Algy nodded miserably. "His plane was seen over enemy lines, going down in flames. It crash landed. The pilot who spotted him didn't see him come out." He looked steadily at the wall behind his CO, determined to keep his voice level. Part of him was still in shock. He knew, deep down, that Biggles must be dead. After all, better pilots had been shot down. Chances of a pilot lasting the entire war were extremely remote. And yet, he had always seen Biggles as being invincible. He couldn't bring himself to believe that his closest friend was now nothing more than a charred corpse, somewhere over enemy lines.

Major Mullen sighed. "It had to happen eventually." He murmured. "No one lasts forever. Considering some of the risks he took, it's amazing Biggles didn't go sooner." He knew, by now, not to spend too long mourning over pilots. Still, he was certainly going to miss Biggles. "You're dismissed, Lacey."

When the young pilot's hazel eyes flickered open, the hint of yellow fire that usually burned inside of them was gone. Blood still flowed from the wound on his forehead in a steady trickle, horribly dark in contrast to his white face. His fair hair was matted with blood. Someone had removed his flying helmet and goggles. As feeling returned to his body, he became aware that his head was throbbing unmercifully, and there was a searing pain across his lower back.

"Still with us, young feller?" Said a kind, deep voice somewhere near him. "I thought you'd had it, for sure!"

Biggles made a weak attempt at speaking. "What happened?"

"Never mind that now. Here, have a drink of this." A cup was pressed against his lips, and he coughed as some sort of fiery liquor trickled down his throat. He managed to drink a little, and as strength slowly returned to his body, he sat up. He swayed slightly, and felt a strong arm around his shoulders, supporting him. Kneeling beside him was a rather wild-looking old man, with an overgrown white beard and a weather-beaten face.

"Feeling better now?"

Biggles nodded. "Yes, thank you." He wasn't being entirely honest. "Who are you?"

"My name is Tom. That's all you need to know."

"You're English."

"Never mind what race I am. You're on the wrong side of the lines, and things won't go well for you if you're captured. I know who you are, and so do the Germans. You've shot down a hell of a lot of their planes, and believe me, they want revenge!"

Biggles glanced at his surroundings. He was in a small, bare shack, furnished with only the absolute necessities. Through the window, he could see the still smoldering remains of his Sopwith Camel. "What happened?" He asked again.

"Your plane crashed. Woke me up, I might add. You'd had a rather nasty knock on the head, and your coat had caught fire already." So that was why his back hurt. He'd been burnt. Tom went on. "I recognized you and pulled you out. For a moment I thought you were too far gone to be saved."

"How did you recognize me?"

Tom grinned. "Your name and face aren't unknown to Intelligence. From what I've heard, you've helped us out a few times."

"Intelligence?"

Tom nodded. "Enough about that. The less you know about me, the better. Do you feel any stronger?"

Biggles nodded, although he was still in a lot of pain. Tom helped him to stand, and frowned slightly as he examined him.

"You're still very pale. Bleeding, too. I should try to fix you up a bit, but we really haven't the time. The sooner we're off the better." He passed Biggles the cup again. "It's not much, but it'll help. Come on, we'd better be off."

As they turned to leave, there was a sudden pounding at the door, and a German accented voice bellowed out:

"Everybody out! Now!"


End file.
